Liverwurst always made me think of my grandma, because she made me liverwurst sandwiches when I was little. But these past few years, it also makes me think of Tom.

Tom had a strange sort of bad habit with liverwurst, which he didn't seem to have with any other food he liked. He'd crave liverwurst, buy a package at the SuperValu (or even two packages if it was on sale), make one liverwurst sandwich, eat it, and then let the rest of it sit in the fridge until it went bad. And then, a few months later, he'd do it again.

One day I went grocery shopping with him, and he picked up some liverwurst. I reminded him of what always happened. He promised that this time, it wouldn't. He wouldn't make the one sandwich then let the rest rot, he'd remember to eat it.

Later that day, he made one liverwurst sandwich. He never made another. Under the circumstances, I won't hold it against him. He died the next day.

This is the story I find it easiest to tell about Tom's death, though I can also say many other little details about the day before he died, when I last saw him. But it really doesn't answer any questions about his death. Next entry I'll try to tell the harder story. But I still feel like there isn't any real answer.